


The Elemental Thief

by AnotherLostGirl (animurder)



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Crossover, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, John is a badass, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multiple Crossovers, Murder, Other, Superwholock, sherlock is grumpy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4415957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animurder/pseuds/AnotherLostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a series of unexplainable murders in London, all done in seemingly impossible, contradicting ways.</p><p>A consulting detective is both blasé and incredibly interested.<br/>A blogger is mad at said consulting detective for that very reason.<br/>Two tall, mysterious men show up, claiming to be FBI Agents.<br/>An angel offers to help.<br/>And an eccentric, skinny man in a striped suit shows up with an impossible blue box.</p><p>Meanwhile, the King of Hell, a consulting criminal, and a corrupt time lord make plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Probably a prologue (or something of that nature)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first official fan fiction i've ever posted on AO3! I've been a long time reader and have written some on other websites - but I've decided to try here as well, because I obviously haven't wasted enough of my time withering away as I peck at computer keyboards that produce long and drawn out, yet grammatically correct, sentences (like this one).  
> I'll try to give information about updates, fix the description ,rating and tags as the story progresses, and whatnot as soon as it becomes available.
> 
> Anyway,  
> Please rate and review and contact me through comments/message about any ideas you have for this story (like I said - I'm kinda playing- or in this case: writing- it by ear)  
> Reviews/comments/likes are highly appreciated!
> 
> Anyways- Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue/Backstory Stuff

**_"There is nothing deep down inside us except what we have put there ourselves."_ ** -Richard Rorty

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________ ** _  
_**

 

The first thing he'd noticed about her had been her eyes.

He'd come to the bar around six 'o clock which was, admittedly, slightly earlier than was typically considered "respectable".

Not that he cared.

He'd given up trying to be respectable a long time ago. Finding himself, a washed-up twenty something with thousands in student loans and a little less than 500 in the bank, bored and slightly miserable in his small Islington apartment, he decided, suddenly, that he was going to cheer himself up. 

Which meant that, at a quarter to five, he'd cleaned himself up, put on some decent clothes, spritzed on some cologne, ran a comb through his short hair, and gone out to drink his sorrows away. 

After a long and slightly uncomfortable tube journey, he'd gotten off at the "nightlife" part of town.

He ended up in the slightly less-than-reputable "BigWay Bar" with twenty-seven pounds in his pocket, bags under his eyes, and a desire to test the limits of human intoxication. 

He sat down on the worn-down bar stool, thinking about something or other, tapping his fingers slightly to the loud music in the uncrowded bar.

The music pounded at his temples, his entire skeleton feeling every note of heavy bass, pumping through him like waves of adrenalin.

He rode those waves throughout his mind, eventually getting lost deep in thought. About what? He wasn't sure. But he slowly felt himself drift away, retreating to the recesses of his mind like a moth retreats from the darkness to light. He was, suddenly, jolted away from his thoughts by a small, yet deliberate, feminine cough coming from behind the counter.

He nearly jumped out of his stool before he managed to somewhat collect himself, turning his head to look at the source of the cough.

And what he saw almost made him fall out of his chair again. He was met with sparkling, round, piercing emerald green eyes. He seemed to lose all perception of time and space - staring for what could have been a minute (or twenty) into the entrancing and slightly feline-like eyes.

He stared until the eyes blinked.

"Oh!" he said, embarrassed, realizing that she (the owner of said eyes) had said something that he'd just barely perceived in his distraction- a background blur of sounds and noises-"I'm sorry, what'd you say?". He could feel his cheeks flush with colour.

The girl whom those eyes belonged to was tall and curvy, with long brown hair tied haphazardly in a messy bun, and pale skin, seeming almost to match the white of her crisp shirt, and deep pink lips.

She wore a small name tag that read, in black handwriting "Elizabeth".

She smiled, the skin around her eyes slightly crinkling in an endearing way, "I just asked if I could get you anything," she said, pushing back the damp bangs that clung to her forehead, "surely, you're not here for the view," she wisecracked, nodding at a group of heavily tattooed and bearded middle-aged bikers in leather jackets who sat at a nearby table.

He chuckled, trying to avoid looking into her eyes for fear that he would get lost in them again (and that she'd probably think he was a creepy twat), "Yes, a drink would be nice... Rum and coke?," he asked with a slight smile.

 

 

A small _ding_ , alerting the patrons that a person had walked in (or out), sounded in the background.

The music still pounded in his ears and head but now felt more... tolerable.

Somewhere, the ringing of a mobile phone, vibrating against a wooden table.

 

She smiled back, "Coming right up." 

After she made his drink she took off her apron and name tag, giving over her position to another employee. Her shift was over.

She smiled at him again as she left, half-nodding in his direction as she went out the door.

A small  _ding._

_\------_

Three hours later, when he eventually left, more than a little tipsy, he stumbled on something large on the ground nearly tripping in the dark alleyway that lead out of the bar. He steadied and composed himself, making sure his feet were indeed planted on solid ground (As opposed to the inside of a boat cabin during a storm), Struggling to see in the dark, he took out his mobile and used the bright flashlight to identify this mysterious object.

He froze - his mouth falling open.

A girl with brown hair and what once used to be a white shirt. Used to be before it was stained ruby red with blood.

It was her - Elizabeth.

Panic.

He went, desperately, to look into her magnificent eyes one more time, one  _last_ time, and check for any sign of life left in them.

But the eyes he was met with were not the vibrant jade that he had once seen, that he had once drowned in.

These eyes were no longer emerald green.

They were black.

 


	2. Location: London, England - Earth

Sherlock Holmes was intolerable.

After living with him for years, this was the only firm conclusion that John was able to reach.

Yes, Sherlock was a slightly narcissistic, brilliant, inappropriate, incredibly rude, brilliant, and thoroughly strange, though brilliant, man.

Did he mention that he was brilliant?

Yes – Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly brilliant man, and, no matter how many times John would refuse to admit it, (which was quite a lot), the scarf-wearing, raven-haired man never ceased to entirely amaze and astound him, time after countless time.

But, alas, this was not one of these times.

 

“ _Sherlock_!,” yelled John angrily from beyond the wall, flinging the door to 221B Baker Street open and stomping inside in an angry sort of manner.

He was greeted by the site of said brilliant consulting detective, still in his bedclothes, standing next to the table in the kitchen. 

This in itself would not have been alarming – if he were not outfitted with thick headphones, protective goggles, and wielding a large (And quite loud) piece of machinery, holding it tightly in front of him, as if he were about to, forcefully, bring it down upon something.

“TURN. OFF. THE. CHAINSAW.” John yelled, angrily, punctuating every word, struggling to be heard above the loud, metallic _whirrr-ing_.

Sherlock turned to look at him, glaring through his light and seemingly iridescent eyes, a look of annoyance and frustration on his face, like that of a child who has been told to stop playing with his toys but refuses.

After a brief contest in which the roommates exchanged angry glances (which John won due to the look of pure, unadulterated fury on his face), Sherlock finally sighed dramatically (which could not be heard over the noise of the chainsaw), and flipped the “Off” switch on the piece of equipment.

The chainsaw began to rotate slower and slower, its noise becoming quieter and quieter, until it stopped for good, the noise grinding to a silent halt.

A few seconds of silence followed, in which John set down his grocery bags on the kitchen counter and then simply turned to look at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and slid the headphones off his head.

John spoke not with an angry tone (which was scary enough), but with a calm tone, under which seethed barely pent-up, simmering anger. 

Though he would never admit it, this was the tone that got to Sherlock the most.

“And what _exactly_ are you doing, Sherlock?,” he intoned, clenching his fists in a matter that Sherlock didn’t even need to deduce meant he was extremely upset.

“An experiment”, Sherlock replied, his baritone voice dripping with an “ _isn’t it obvious_ ” tone.

John put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and slowly inhaled.

 _“Trying to calm himself down”_ , deduced Sherlock’s brain automatically.

“Please…enlighten me about this… _experiment_.” 

Sherlock looked at him like he had just sprouted wings and announced that he was planning on flying to Pluto.

“John, do you not have eyes? Honestly, I never had incredibly high hopes for your reliance in inductive reasoning, but surely this should be obvious, even to someone as tediously daft as yourself,” he snapped at him.

He stretched his long limbs, glaring at John all the while, “Honestly, don’t waste my time in order to spoon-feed things that are plainly apparent.”

He dropped backwards and flopped dramatically onto the couch, his black curls bouncing.

Well then.

 

Perhaps it was his own fault for trying to interact with Sherlock when he hadn’t been on a case for a while.

John sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He had just got home from a long day at the surgery, stopping by the supermarket on the way home.

It was smack in the middle of flu season, and most of his patients had been positive that they’d been stricken with the plague. 

They’d been shocked when he just diagnosed them with influenza and ordered them to bed rest and advised them to drink lots of fluids.

His receptionist had mixed up some of the patients’ files, (a fact he had become aware of when his papers stated that one of his patient’s, a large, heavily bearded middle aged man, had recently given birth to twins), and he’d had to stay late to help her put them back in order.

He had just gotten to the front of the Baker Street apartments when he’d heard the loud, droning, metallic sound coming from above.

He highly doubted that Mrs. Hudson had suddenly taken up woodworking and installed a power saw in her kitchen, so his original belief was confirmed – that is was his eccentric, ivory-skinned, and, as of recent, incredibly bored flatmate.

 

What he had before him, in his flat, were dozens of what looked like mannequins, or sewing-dummies, some whole and stuffed, some upright, some barely recognizable with stuffing spilling out around them. They were all different colors and sizes, centralized around the kitchen table. A light brown one was on the floor, halfway underneath the table, a large rip cutting across it, letting the white stuffing spill out. A beige one was dangling from a homemade noose, made of rope, a smaller, but still prominent slice cutting across half the abdomen. A dark blue satiny one lay upon the table, on its back, chest up, with not a scratch on it. 

John easily guessed that this is what Sherlock was about to bring his chainsaw down upon.

He had no idea how to even _begin_ cleaning this massacre up, and turned to say something to his genius flatmate.

Sherlock, curled up on the couch, like a pale, grumpy cat, refused to even acknowledge him.

Good God - he'd almost forgotten how much of a bonafide diva his flatmate could be at times.

He was doing what John, much to the consulting detectives’ annoyance, referred to as his “pouty face”, his intense blue-grey-green eyes narrowed, his nose slightly scrunched with distaste, and his peach lips pressed tightly together.

The normally mature, albeit slightly juvenile, detective was transformed into a grumpy eight year old within a matter of days, right before his eyes.

Sherlock hadn’t had a case in weeks. It was almost as if, in the tall detectives’ words, “all the criminal scum of London had decided to take a simultaneous vacation from delinquency.”

Sherlock, as he tended to get when not on a case, slowly became more and more restless and agitated with every passing day. 

Before someone could even finish knocking on the front door Sherlock would swoop in, all long limbs and anticipation – hoping for a client or Lestrade, and scaring more than one parcel delivery man and young child selling coupon books for school.

John, upon seeing Sherlock, decided to, perhaps in a sporadic fit of pity, let his miserable roommate off the hook, if only for once.

John sat down on his chair, rubbing his temple (was he getting a small migraine from all this stress?) and breathed out in a long, drawn-out huff. He began to relax, feeling the familiar cushion adjust to his form beneath him, and slowly began to drum his fingers on his knee.

 

The two sat in silence for a few minutes.

 

“So, an experiment?” John said neutrally, reaching to the side table for the newspaper. He got the weekly and set it in his lap.

Sherlock was quiet for a couple of seconds and then turned over on the couch, looking at John with weary eyes, “I was attempting to catalogue the different types of chainsaw wounds as applied with altered positions of the human torso.”

John opened his paper, “No cases yet, then?”

Sherlock groaned and sat upright on the couch, “Not even one.”

He stretched his arms out and rolled his shoulders, “I’d even take a _4,_ John,” he said, dreadfully, slouching resignedly back into his relaxed seated position on the couch.

John’s eyes never left his paper, “that desperate, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

A comfortable silence followed the exchange, John continuing his paper whilst Sherlock stared at an invisible point in the distance, probably re-organizing his memory palace for the umpteenth time, as he tended to do when bored.

John turned the page, and, as if on trigger, Sherlock sprang to his feet, a flurry of terry blue cloth and dark hair, and went into his room, closing the door loudly.

John continued to read.

 

He was on page seven, just finishing up an article about the tube being renovated, ( _about bloody time_ , he’d thought), when Sherlock emerged again, appearing as quickly as he’d left, in the living room, with a thoughtful expression on his face.

It was hard to believe that the Sherlock that he’d seen when he first entered the flat and the Sherlock he saw now were the same person.

He’d gotten changed and was now wearing his usual pair of black trousers and a crisp, white, long-sleeved shirt. He’d also combed his hair, and the dark curls looked almost ethereal in contrast to his pale skin. His silver-olive eyes were almost aglow with a sort of energy, which seemed spread to his other features, making his cheekbones look, somehow, more pronounced and striking, his entire light complexion glowing in turn. He had his black jacket in his hand, and was about to put it on when the doorbell rang.

Per usual, Sherlock rushed to get it, taking a moment to compose himself before opening the door.

Sherlock attempted to hide his slightly excited grin, but failed.

“Lestrade,” he greeted the detective inspector, curtly nodding at him and moving quickly, fully opening the door in a flash. 

Although no one else could have probably told, John could sense the excitement under Sherlock’s calm, detached demeanor. As the taller man stood at attention, waiting for the DI to say something, John could almost feel the waves of anticipation roll off of Sherlock’s skin, could feel the heat and the enthusiasm. He wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to be Sherlock.

 

The grey-haired DI stepped into 221B, nodding at John, who smiled back, and scratched at his stubble. He looked tired, as he frequently did, but even more so, the bags under his eyes bringing out his untrimmed 5 ‘o’ clock shadow. 

He cracked his knuckles, weakly. “Sherlock, we have… well…”, he paused, attempting to find the words before sighing heavily, “Well, we’re actually not quite sure what we have… I… we… well…”, he ran his fingers wearily though his hair, “I just think you should probably see this Sherlock – maybe try and help us make sense of any of this.” 

Sherlock shot a quick, brief glance at John, a look of pure excitement and anticipation so swift that John wasn’t sure that he hadn’t imagined it, because, within a second, Sherlock was back to his normal, quiet, albeit visibly eager “greater than thou” demeanor. 

Sherlock quickly agreed, which seemed to strip some of the worry from Lestrade’s face, and did his usual banter about Anderson and Donovan being ridiculously under-qualified and how inefficient Scotland Yard was and so on. Even so, the jabs were light and there was little menace behind them, Sherlock’s enthusiasm masking any cruelty in the familiar repartee.

Greg Lestrade left Sherlock with an address and a request to come down as soon as possible.

He, wearily but amiably, retreated, nodding a quick goodbye at Sherlock and John, and shut the door that separated the consulting detective and the doctor from the world outside.

They stood in the flat for a moment, listening to the stairs outside creak as the DI made his way down them, eventually hearing the front door open, releasing the sounds of London, of the incessant babbling of people and the metallic noises of machinery and the catchy music and comforting sound of the wind, and then the same door slam shut, banishing the noises.

 

For a second the quiet room seemed to be buzzing with electricity.

Sherlock moved in a frenzy, putting on his coat with lightning speed, a flurry of black cloth and purple fabric, “Finally! A crime!” he quickly exclaimed, tying his scarf around his neck with nimble fingers, “London, you never disappoint!” He looked at John with a fairly mischievous smile that the blonde-haired doctor couldn’t help but return.

John rose from his chair and made his way to the kitchen, sidestepping the disassembled mannequins on the floor.

Sherlock paused, the knot of his scarf almost complete, “John…”

“Yes, Sherlock?” John deadpanned back, reaching into a cupboard for a cup.

Sherlock pressed his lips together for a brief moment, his wet tongue darting out slightly to lick them quickly. He straightened his jacket, then paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I realize that you've had a long day at work today, no doubt due in part to the recent spread of influenza around London this week, but might I... suggest that we leave for the crime scene immediately? Lestrade looked visibly distressed, and by his behavior and the tone of his voice this case is at least an eight.”

He cleared this throat and straightened his jacket again, although he had just done it, “So….”

 

John paused, halfway from setting his cup on the counter. “Is this your way of telling me nicely to hurry up?”

Sherlock looked at him, expressionless as always, yet a little bit of – was that embarrassment? – on his face.

He sighed, his baritone voice steady, “I realize that these past weeks I’ve been rather…. Well...”

“Infuriating? Childish? Impossible?” John suggested, putting the kettle on the stove with a _clank_.

Sherlock looked only briefly exasperated, “… _irritable_.”

John paused for a moment, seeing the look of faint uncertainty on the genius’s normally stony face.

“And I guess this is you apologizing to me, yeah?” John asked with a smile, turning on the stove.

Sherlock smiled, slightly, back, “I guess it is?”

John smiled, fully this time, “Good. Apology accepted.”

Sherlock looked relieved, “So I assume this means that you will be accompanying me on this case after all.”

John grinned internally.

 

They both knew that he would have come either way.

 

“Just let me get a cup of tea first,” John proposed, taking the tea bags from the cabinet and setting them on the counter, next to the grocery bags, “deal, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pretended to consider it, feigning a look of exaggerated deliberation.

“Deal.” Sherlock finally said, finishing the knot in his scarf.

They smirked at each other.

The clock by the oven read 12:43

The kettle began to squeal on the stove, steam rising from its top.


	3. Location: Sedalia, Missouri – United States – Earth

Blood.

Thick, warm, liquescent.

Sam never, for all the times he’d encountered it, got used to it.

Fluid life – a reminder that he was alive. The raw, metallic, earthy scent that sunk to the bottom of his soul, disgusting but intoxicating.

He tried to hold his left arm as still as possible.

Every time he moved it, even a centimeter, an eruption of pain burst through him like lightning, striking him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He winced and bit down on his tongue, trying to keep silent.

 _Damn_. It was probably broken.

But no matter how much it hurt, Sam Winchester refused to give the demon the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in agony. 

He gritted his teeth, temporarily suppressing the pain, and continued the exorcism. “ _Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine…”_

The demon, trapped in the body of a young woman, hissed at Sam and let out a scream, bringing up its bloody hands and waving them in his direction, sending him flying, like a puppet on strings, across the room.

He hit the west wall hard, slamming against it and falling to the floor, landing on, out of all odds, on his bad left arm. It took all his willpower to not just collapse then and there.

 He continued onwards, feeling the bruises form on his body, _“Ut Ecclesiam tuam…”_

 The room was shaking now, loose pieces of paper and random objects swirling all around. Lights all around the room were flickering, on and then off and then on again and then off. The curtains and tapestries went flying, as if being pulled into an invisible black hole. The furniture shook on the ground, dropping the items that rested on top of them.

Somewhere, a crash. A lamp had fallen to the floor, its glass bulb exploded in a million sharp pieces, the lampshade tilted and rolling with reckless abandon across the floor, as if it had a mind of its own.

Sam squinted his eyes, trying to see the monster through the chaos. 

He shielded his face with his right hand as a large paperweight went flying dangerously close to his head.

He continued the chant, raising his voice to be heard over the bedlam, _“secura tibi facias libertate…”_

 

The black-eyed demon hissed menacingly at Sam, a look of pure animosity in its eyes, small black vapors slowly appearing around it. The hiss slowly turned into a loud, wailing, shout, which transformed into a piercing scream, filling the room with an impossibly high, earsplitting sound, seeming to tear every fiber of his body apart, bursting all the windows and making Sam scream and cover his ears. 

He was so close to the end of the exorcism, almost finished, he couldn’t give up now.

He shouted, screaming to be heard above the heart-stopping wail the demon was letting out, _“servire, te rogm…”_  

Sam suddenly fell silent, trying to speak but having none of his words come out.

Suddenly he felt like he was choking, like all the air was being forcefully squeezed out of him, like juice from a grape.

 

He doubled over, coughing violently, hands against the floor to keep his suddenly weak body upright.

He coughed violently and felt a bubbling liquid come out of his mouth, drowning him from the inside. He looked at it, tried to catch some in his hands, to see what it was.

It was blood.

 

He tried to finish the last few words of the exorcism, but every time he tried to speak blood bubbled up in the back of his throat and poured out of his mouth like a macabre waterfall, suffocating him.

All he could do was stay in his hunched position, coughing up scores of blood, the thick, smooth liquid pouring, never-endingly, from his mouth, filling his taste buds with the flavor of potent, earthy, copper.

He’d had so many near-death encounters, survived so many ridiculous events, that it was hard to imagine that this was how he was going to die.

Sam Winchester, one-half of the Winchester duo, killed, not by an angel or a world-saving sacrifice, but by a plain, albeit slightly tricky, demon.

 

He let out a groan. His head felt tremendously light and incredibly dizzy. The room seeming to spin around him, the wooden ground knocking up against him. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he had seconds before he passed out.

In his last few seconds of consciousness he fired off a quick prayer to Castiel (or any angel that could hear him), before abandoning his doubled-over position to simply sprawl on the ground, blood pouring, torrentially, from his mouth, darkening the floor around him.

He stared at the door as best as he could through the pandemonium, halfway across the room, it’s light, white wood standing out, quaintly, from the dark, oak interior of the room.

He decided that this was not the worst sight to see before he died.

 

 _Like a dollhouse door_ , he thought groggily, his head spinning. 

And he wanted to cry and laugh and scream at tg

He started to convulse violently on the ground, retching and twisting.

He grimaced internally _, Dean would never shut up about this if he heard me say_ _that sentence out loud._

 

As if he’d summoned him with his thoughts, the quaint door suddenly burst open violently, hitting the back wall, and a very angry Dean Winchester strode through it, a shotgun in his arms.

 _“rogamus, audi nos!”_ , the older Winchester shouted, his voice echoing over the demonic commotion in the room.

The demon cried out, as if it’d been burned, and started wailing, black smoke rising from its head.

With a howling scream, a long trail of black smoke arose from the demon and descended into the ground, the body of the young woman dropping, limply, to the floor.

 

The commotion suddenly ceased, the wind in the room stopping suddenly, everything dropping, quietly, to the floor.

Sam, barely conscious, suddenly stopped convulsing, the blood from his mouth suddenly halting as well. He quickly gasped in air, almost choking himself, and began fiercely coughing out the remains of the dark liquid in his mouth. 

He rose into a sitting position, still coughing violently (but at least able to breathe), and began taking slow, shallow breaths.

His brother quickly surveyed the room, gun at the ready, making sure there weren’t any hidden dangers. Once he was satisfied he made his way over to his younger (but taller) brother.

Sam was still coughing, but less violently, focusing on taking in even breaths, wiping the blood from his face with his coat sleeve.

 

“You okay, Sammy?”, said Dean, tinges of deep worry on his face, cracking his usually cocky and confident façade .

Sam let out some small coughs, inhaling through his nose and breathing out, slowly, through his mouth, “Yeah... I think I’ll be fine,” he said, breathlessly, unfolding his ridiculously long frame and standing, unsteadily, up off the ground.

Dean quickly put an arm around the shoulder of his unbalanced younger brother, “Sammy... man, you can’t even stand by yourself!” He accused, managing to hold him, somehow, relatively upright.

“I said _I’m fine_ ,” Sam replied, emphasizing the last part of the sentence.

As if to prove his point he, at that moment, fell, nearly hitting the ground, and doubled over into another fit of coughing, small drops of blood still coming out of his mouth.

 

Dean all but forcibly carried him into the Impala, contrary to his incessant protests.

 

It was a warm, but not uncomfortably so, night, with a breeze drifting in every now and then, refreshing the air.

Dean, as always, drove while Sam sat in the passenger seat, the taller brother facing the closed window. Dean would normally put on music now and sing or drum or play air guitar along to the song, but tonight he was silent.

They surfed the smooth asphalt of the road in a rigid sort of silence – the only music being the sounds of loud crickets and the occasional bird call as they drove.

 

The tension in the air was almost tangible.

 

The older Winchester turned to look at Sam, “I know you’re not okay, Sam”, he deadpanned, looking directly into his brother’s greenish-hazel eyes before focusing on the dark road again.

Sam shot Dean one of his patented bitchfaces, “Dean, I said I was fine. Quit making this a big deal.”

 

Wow, okay. Cue grouchy Sam.

 

Dean never took his eyes of the road. “Sammy, I know when you’re not “fine” – alright.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest when Dean, quick as lightning, reached out and prodded his left arm.

Sam unconsciously let out a hissed wince before realizing his mistake, and quickly attempted to disguise it as a cough. 

 

Dean, however, was having none of it.

“Aha!” He yelled triumphantly, his green eyes glowing, “I _knew_ it.” His tone sharpened, “Now, for once, quit being such a drama queen and tell me what the hell happened to you back there.” 

Sam thought he heard something unfamiliar in his brother’s voice and suddenly realized that it was worry. 

He, admittedly, felt a little bit guilty.

Sam opened his mouth, as if to say something, before thinking and then slowly closing it, defeated.

He sunk back in his seat, pushing a strand of long hair out of his face, “It’s just… my arm,” he explained, dejectedly, his grumpy mood evaporating from his eyes to reveal the “caring, touchy-feely” expression (In Dean’s words) that was normally there. “The demon slammed me against a wall and, well, I’m not sure but…” he, experimentally, tried to move his arm and flinched in pain, “I think there’s something definitely not right.”

 

Dean sighed internally, relieved. 

He could deal with a broken arm. 

 

“Okay, we’ll take a look at it when we get to a motel,” he said, turning on a Bon Jovi song and raising the volume to an almost ear-splitting volume.

The sleek, black car made its way down the matching-colored highway, stirring up dust in its wake.

 

Nineteen hours and eleven cans of Red Bull later, Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of a seedy, roadside motel, which proudly advertised it had “RMS AVALBE” (Which was actually supposed to be read “ROOMS AVAILIBLE” if some of the electrically-powered lettered lights hadn't gone out.)

Dean got a room and key while Sam got their very small amount of luggage (mostly clean clothes, research books, and laptops) out of the Impala.

The bored, middle-aged front desk attendant had first given Dean the key to room number 12, which Dean quickly discovered, was a single bed.

After the slightly vexed car-loving Winchester had sorted _that_ misunderstand out, they’d been given a key to another room, which they didn't even have to enter to know that it already had guest and they were very… occupied at the moment, judging from the sounds that spilled outside the think walls.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they opened the half-painted door to room 43 and burst in, setting down their luggage.

 

Dean flopped down, animatedly, onto the hard bed, lying on his back with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched. He let himself relax for a moment, breathing in deeply, inhaling the scent of cigarettes, musk, and spilled alcohol. 

Yep, he could definitely get some sleep here.

 

He got up and examined Sam’s arm, seeing the unusual way the bone seemed to almost poke out of the skin. He wasn't a doctor or anything, but that really didn't seem right. 

Anyways, he and Sam had done the best they could – opting to wrap it up in gauze and make a sort of makeshift sling from an old shirt. For now, at least, there was really nothing else they could do. 

He took a shower, the cheap hotel faucet making the water seem more like pelting hail than h2o, and got changed into his bedclothes, yawning loudly as he ran his hands through his light brown hair. He quickly brushed his teeth, shaved, and exited the bathroom.

He sat down on his bed and watched his younger brother, who had already set his laptop up on the table, (what a geek), typing rapidly on his keyboard and occasionally jotting down a note, all the while having an intense and almost painful look of concentration on his face.

 

“Constipated?” Dean asked, stretching his slightly sore arms out and cracking his knuckles.

Sam was, as usual, not amused, “Hilarious, Dean.” He didn't even look up from his computer screen.

“Suit yourself, Steve Jobs,” Dean responded, lying down, exhausted. “Just don’t wake me up.” 

“Wouldn't want to,” Sam smirked, quietly, under his breath.

“I heard that!” accused Dean from under the covers, lobbing a pillow at Sam’s head.

Sam seemed like he was about to respond but then appeared to think better of it, opting instead to simply nod his head and continue typing away like a madman.

 

He’d been doing a lot of that lately.

 

But Dean didn't notice, as he was already out cold, dreaming of everything and nothing at the same time.

_______________________________________________

Dean woke up, not to birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the window, but to a pattern of incessant _tap-tap-tapping_. Dean rubbed his eyes, focusing his vision on the motel room before him.

He turned over to face Sam’s bed – but his brother was nowhere to be seen. He’d even made his bed, so the blankets were all tucked in, seemingly unused. _What a girl_ , Dean thought.

Hopefully he’d gone out to get them some food. He was starving, as his growling stomach constantly reminded him.

Dean, after a couple minutes of contemplation, sat up in his bed, stretching. When he quickly scanned the room with his eyes, a habit that he’d picked up on doing since he was a child, he landed upon the sight of his brother, back hunched over his computer, in the same position as he was yesterday.

 

He got up from bed, and stretched his muscles, “Why’re you up so early,” he yawned in his brother’s general direction, scratching his head. Those cheap pillows were definitely not comfortable.

Sam stopped typing and turned around to face Dean, who nearly choked, mid-yawn.

The taller brother had a glazed look on his face, complete with large, purple bags under his bloodshot eyes and a few unshaved whiskers on his chin.

Dean took in Sam’s appearance and quickly changed the look on his face from shock to slightly amused.

 

“You were up all night, weren’t you?” Dean stated, grabbing one of his scattered shirts on the floor.

Sam blinked, somehow managing to look even more worn-out, “That obvious, huh?”

Dean pulled the shirt over his head and onto his torso, pulling out his necklace from underneath, “You look like hell, Sammy.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “Thanks, Dean.” He blinked again, rapidly, focusing his eyes, and looked at Dean. “Anyways, c’mere, I have something to show you… something _big_.” A little excitement seeped into his tired voice at the end of the sentence, lighting up his sore eyes. 

Dean sighed and pulled up a chair, sitting down next to him so he could see the bright computer screen, “Worst pick up line ever.”

Sam huffed, a slight, tiny, smile hidden under his look of irritation, “Ha ha Dean,” he intoned, mechanically. 

 

He turned his attention away from Dean and back onto his computer screen, where he pulled up some websites .He turned the computer to face Dean, the screen on an online foreign newspaper, surrounded by brightly-colored ads, 

“Read this.”

Dean wearily eyed the long article, “Can’t you just tell me…”

“No,” Sam said seriously, looking into his brother’s eyes with a slightly grave expression, “I _really_ think you should read this yourself.”

Dean, a little bit taken aback from Sam’s suddenly solemn behavior, only gave his brother a quick, half-hearted exasperated look, and read the article, taking in every little bit of text.

His eyes widened as he read, his mouth falling open as he approached the end.

When he was finished he simply turned the laptop’s computer screen back towards Sam, sitting silently, in his chair - not even moving.

 

Sam copied his brothers behavior for several moments, the only sounds in the room being the vibrating _whoosh_ of the old radiator and the soft sound of tree branches colliding with the outside of their window.

Sam was the one to finally break the silence. “So…” He said, uncertainly, shifting his position in the chair to face more towards his brother, “… What do you think?”

Dean, almost as if coming out of a trance, suddenly shook his head slightly, a sense of resolution settling over his features, reflecting and radiating from his posture, his energy.

His bright eyes blazed with a fire that could only come from the prospect of solving a mystery.

 

He smirked confidently.

 

 “I think that we’re going to London, Sammy.”


	4. Location: VectorField 124.3 – The Exlariyamian Galaxy – G-Supernova Delta 26

The doctor was in a bit of a pickle.

Not an actual pickle, (though that had happened before), but a situation so terrifyingly ridiculous that he could feel all logic slip right out of his hands, leaving him grasping onto nothing but air.

This was one of these situations.

The Doctor signed and ran his fingers through his messy light brown hair, further disheveling it.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought _, it was like trying to argue with a Sontaran_.

No matter how much you said or thought you somehow ended up further back then you’d started.

 

He was investigating a distress call that he’d received this morning, a single red blip he’d picked up whilst doing a routine radio-frequency scan on the TARDIS radar.

He figured that, since he hadn’t visited the Exlariyamian Galaxy in a while, (they had beautiful trees and plants that were naturally bright red and, interestingly enough, sentient), he might just as well go to check it out.

He now regretted his decision.

He had traced back the source of the call to a seemingly abandoned VectorField in the underground caverns of the plant.

The VectorFields had been built centuries ago, when the planet was new and still forming, back when the inhabitants had not adapted to the atmosphere outside.

The government, therefore, had built VectorFields – large, clear, city-sized domes that curved upwards and sparkled against the two green suns. They used to be teeming with life, vibrant and exciting, only the brave daring to venture outside, careful to return before the green suns set and the bright yellow moon rose, signaling the emission of tasteless, scentless toxic fumes from the planet’s core all the way up to its crust.

This problem had long-since been solved, both by science and nature, as ways were found to decrease the fumes and the inhabitants (The Eiimral race) eventually naturally evolved and adapted an immunity to it.

As time went on, science advanced and the race continued to evolve, until the invisible fumes no longer affected any of the eiimral’s anymore.

The VectorFields faded away with time – the few that still remained growing old and non-functional, no longer able to keep out the fumes, the purpose of which it was designed for.

This was also the greatest defense a species could ever have – a toxic planet.

No one wanted to invade their planet, and those who had tried had died quickly from the scentless, tasteless fumes.

So the planet had continued onwards in a solitary, peaceful life, gaining the reputation as a lonesome but respectable species.

 _Sounds familiar_ , the Doctor thought, lightly, shaking his head as if to physically disengage himself from the fog that his mind had been ensnared it.

Ok, good. Now, where was he?

Ahh, yes.

Trapped in an abandoned VectorField, ten minutes before moonrise.

Ten minutes before certain death.

 

He sighed again, more of an internal sigh than anything else, a mental reprimandation.

He really had to stop doing this.

He stood, thin hand against the curved clear material, looking very much like he was trapped inside a large, glass bubble, a tiny figure in a plastic snow globe; the snow replaced with dust and dirt.

He was six inches away from the TARDIS, which remained right outside of the dome, a couple of inches of clear material separating them.

He could almost reach out and touch it.

If not for about 2 inches of a clear but incredibly thick material.

He had tried to summon the TARDIS, to make it appear around or next to him, like he had done so many times before, but the clear material of the wall had somehow managed to jam the transmission of electronic commands that did so.

So that plan was out.

 

“Blimey,” he said aloud, looking at his curved reflection in the glass-like material. He observed himself- looking over his image: from his long frame to his messy brown hair, pinstriped brown suit, brown eyes, and scuffed converse.

He pulled back from the curved edge and began pacing back and forth, as he tended to do when anxious, thinking.

His mind, as it normally did, whirred at a million miles per hour, shifting between thoughts like cards being shuffled in a playing deck, his mind instantly drawing a thousand pointless and important parallels between random things; like what the angle was of the quickly setting sun on the top of the dome (done by instantly by calculating the area of the dome, accounting for its curves, and cross-refracting this with the speed of light on this planet -1347 Herio / second) and the approximate temperature of the planets core (from the light particle refraction varied within the ground temperature).

He quickly pulled himself back together.

He knew that if he put one pinky toe into the pool of his mind then it would only be moments before he dived in, drowning, in his own head.

“C’mon, _think_.” He commanded himself, irritatingly kicking up bits of gravel on the dusty ground beneath him, converse scuffing the sooty ground.

Some of said bits of gravel hit the side of his glass cage with a slight _plink_ before promptly falling to ground again.

The doctor suddenly stopped in his tracks, looking up suddenly, eyes wide.

He, cautiously this time, kicked up some more pieces of gravel.

As they had before, they hit against the glass, bouncing off.

However, there were a couple of almost unnoticeable scratches on the surface.

Unnoticeable if you hadn't been looking for them.

The doctor smiled, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

 

He ended up bolting into his TARDIS exactly four seconds before moonrise, covered head to toe in dust and bits of gravel.

Still remaining inside the dome, a single red converse shoe began to slowly disintegrate from the fumes.

-

Five hours and two showers later and the Doctor was feeling quite melancholy.

He’d tinkered with the TARDIS’s machinery, made himself a cup of tea, spilled said cup of tea, cleaned up said spilled cup of tea, made a new cup of tea, and accidentally fell into the swimming pool (where it’d gone off to now, he had no idea) twice, and ended up having to make himself a new sonic screwdriver.

He was halfway through re-coordinating the TARDIS’s motion sensor (something that he had put off for an admittedly long time), when he heard the phone ringing.

“Oi, Oi, I’m coming!,” he muttered to himself, putting down some of his random gizmos and tools and sprinting towards the door.

He picked up the phone and felt his face light up, “Hello, Martha Jones.”

“Hello, doctor,” she replied.

He could hear her smile through the phone.

“We here at UNIT could really use your help, doctor.”

The doctor smiled back. “When do you need me there?”

“Yesterday.”

“I guess I’ll be right there.”

“Alright… hey, doctor?”

“Yes, Martha?”

A pause. An eternity expressed in a split second.

“It’s good to hear your voice again,” she spoke, quietly, a warmth radiating out from her voice, “I mean… It’s good to know that you haven’t forgotten… that you’re still out there.”

The Doctor felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he replied, in his normal cocksure but childish way, “Well, you know me.”

“Goodbye, Doctor.”

“Bye, Martha.

The call ended and he hung up the phone with a _clank_ , promptly retreating back inside the TARDIS.

He almost felt physically lighter, the promise of an interesting situation, an impossible problem, lightening his step unit he was floating.

He sprinted to the control panel of his TARDIS and smiled at it, fondly.

“Well,” he said aloud, pulling some levers and flicking some switches with what closely resembled reckless abandon, a smile slowly spreading across his face, “London – here we come!”.

Blimey – he really did need someone with him, if only to hear him talk and respond back, keeping him from looking absolutely insane.

He reached over the control panel as the TARDIS began to shake and disintegrate, pausing for a second before pulling the final, middle lever.

He smiled, a real smile this time, one that made his brown eyes sparkle and his whole being pulse with energy.

“Allons-y!”

And then he was flying through time, space and the universe with reckless abandon in his eyes and a spring in his step.


	5. Location: London – Upper Islington, England – Earth

**WARNING: Graphic depictions of a dead body (kinda gross)**

 

“Where are the intestines?”

“Uhhh… excuse me?”

“The intestines - the lower part of the alimentary canal that extends from the end of the stomach to the anus.”

“Wha… What?”

“The _intestines_ – about… yay long and yay high.”

Sherlock gestured and held his hands apart to the correct length,

“Though if you have to ask then you might want to seriously reconsider your investment in medical school...”

John quickly intervened, pulling Sherlock aside none to gently and “accidentally” elbowing the dark-haired man in the ribs, “Nothing. He means nothing – ignore him.”

He nodded well-naturedly to the young, confused medical assistant.

He turned to face the consulting detective. Energy practically radiated from Sherlock’s iridescent eyes, the vigor that comes from having a stimulating case, a challenge, a mystery to solve _._

 _It was almost that of_ , John thought, suddenly _,_  with a sinking feeling, _an addict finally getting a fix of his least-favorite favorite vice._

 

He-refocused his gaze on Sherlock, who was looking at him expectantly and surprisingly well-manneredly.

The air buzzed with the sounds of Scotland Yard milling around – the clicks of cameras and the chatter of officers, all accompanied by the scraping of shoes against the gravel street.

John gave him a slightly disapproving stare, not putting his whole heart into it, one that hopefully conveyed his message that “harassing the medical assistants on a murder case is not good.”

The consulting detective nodded slightly and walked, no, _strode_ , over to the crime scene with a sort of haughty, confident excitement in his step.

John couldn’t help but smile slightly.

He saw Sherlock bound over to Lestrade, hair now combed and a light back in his eyes.

 

John felt as if he was physically thirty pounds lighter. His flatmate was back to normal.

 

Sherlock crouched down next to the body, looking up and down every inch of it intensely, reading it as if it were a book with a hidden story to tell – which perhaps it was to him..

It was a little past midday, perhaps around two, which a quick glance to his watch confirmed.

They’d hailed a taxi, as Sherlock, being his usual self, had refused a ride from the Yard, and followed the crime scene tape to find themselves in a seedy back-alleyway in the Islington party district.

Sherlock’s look of pure, unadulterated glee upon seeing the dead body, surrounded by officers and medical personnel in white coats, was both reassuring and slightly unnerving.

And so John stood, slightly off to the side, dodging EMT’s and investigators, watching Sherlock do what Sherlock did.

He could almost see, as if by magic, Sherlock’s spine straighten, his hands stop twitching, his brow set, and his skin start to colour up, slowly losing the alarmingly grey-ish undertone that’d hed developed.

Sherlock suddenly looked up from the body, meeting John’s eyes, his own sparkling with excitement and anticipation and joy behind the stoic mask he usually bestowed upon himself.

John met his gaze.

 

Once, back when he played rugby, one of his mates had accidentally flung the ball directly at his windpipe. He’d collapsed on the muddy ground, eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets, unable to breathe in or out, unable to speak or think or do anything.

For some reason, he remembered this feeling while he met Sherlock’s eyes.

John, not fully consciously, took a mental image, a snapshot in his brain, of his flatmate at this very moment.

He didn’t usually consider himself easily given over to sentiment, not easily seduced to mawkishness.

He just wanted to remember Sherlock like this, like he was right now.

He wanted to remember him at his most alive.

 

He disentangled himself from Sherlock’s mesmerizing gaze and saw the tall man gesture for him to come nearer. He came next to him and crouched, mirroring the consulting detective’s position.

What they were looking at made John’s stomach twist into a knot. No matter how many dead people he’d seen, no matter how many people he’d watch die, it never got any easier.

The victim was a young woman, probably once beautiful, her body bent and broken, blood drenching her dress shirt, coloring it bright red.

She laid, mangled, in the alleyway, her closed eyes showing off her sparkly eyeshadow.

Bits and chunks of unintelligible body parts and gore streaked her long hair, which was tangled with semi-dried blood and clear fluid, a knotted mess, half-dry and half-damp.

Her mouth was still slightly agape, pink lips letting out a seemingly silent scream, one that she would be shouting forever.

John turned away (whether out of respect or disgust he wasn’t sure), before turning back around, furrowing his brow and setting his brain to “doctor” mode.

“Well…”, he said, accepting a pair of white latex gloves from Lestrade, who had come up beside him and silently offered them. He snapped the gloves on his hands and ran one of his fingers across the body’s upper forehead, stopping occasionally to palpate the area.

Sherlock regarded him intensely, bending closer towards him.

“From what I can tell…,” The blonde-haired doctor began, taking a finger and running down the bones on the side of her neck, “The coronal structure shattered first… before she died. She most likely fell on her back, judging from the badly shattered parietal bo... _huh_ , that’s… odd.”

“John?”, Sherlock questioned, an unspecified edge in his voice.

“It’s just… usually with injuries of this kind you have the external bones break first and the internal ones break last…”, John continued, checking pulse points and looking for puncture wounds, “However, it seems that the inner bones were broken _before_ the outer bones, like she was… killed from the inside out.”

He looked up at Sherlock and Lestrade, who were watching him with anticipation, and peeled off his gloves, finished. He stood up with a sigh, “Though judging by her pulse and coloration it may very well have been shock that killed her first.”

 

He promptly threw his gloves away in a nearby bin and made his way back to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were standing next to the body and about a million other Scotland Yard officials.

Sherlock was standing eerily still, eyes ten thousand miles away, his long fingers steeled underneath his chin, a concentrated expression on his face. Lestrade was running his fingers through his hair. The Detective Inspector spoke first, turning to John with bloodshot eyes, “So, what’d you think?”

John breathed in the crisp air, which was tinged with the metallic smell of alcohol from the nearby bars, a smell, John thought with chagrin, he know all too well.

He tried to think of something – he really did.

Though he had gotten over most of his self-consciousness, he still was eager to not look completely useless when Sherlock brought him to a crime scene, not wanting to be known as “Sherlock’s only friends that he sometimes bring to crime scenes who just kind of stands around and doesn’t really do much.”

As childish as it might be, he felt a constant pressure to prove himself.

 And maybe Sherlock did, too. Maybe that’s why he was how he was.

He exhaled all his thoughts, watching them evaporate into the fresh air, and looked at Lestrade, “It’s definitely… unusual.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at him, “really?”

A pause.

 

He knew Lestrade was having none of it.

John sighed, “Alright, It’s bloody confusing. I’m… I’m not quite sure what even happened.” He sidestepped away from a crime scene photographer with a bulky camera, who narrowly avoided colliding into him as well. “I can tell you what bones are broken and how, but I can’t exactly tell you why.”

Both men turned to look at, possibly the only person that could.

Sherlock was still quiet and undisturbed, standing stiff as a statue, even against the small crowd of people (or “yarders” as he referred to them), features set and chiseled.

His face was that of intense concentration, eyes slightly squinted, looking rather peaceful and eerily serene.

To anyone else he would seem relaxed and at ease, easily sorting through his thoughts.

John knew, however, that behind this calm exterior, Sherlock was buzzing with facts and deductions, making connections with lightning speed and dismissing them just as quickly, questioning everything and nothing in his own erratic way, drawing connections and creating explanations simeltaneously.

John wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to have Sherlock’s brain.

Perhaps, in an odd way, Sherlock himself didn’t even know.

John’s eyes drifted past Sherlock – to the scenery behind him, the back-doors in the alleyway, the litter scattered about the ground, the broken glass from beer bottles, and the general grunginess.

It was hard to believe that a woman who was once so beautiful had died in a place like this.

He focused his attention back on Sherlock, who was still doing his damn squinty-eyed face.

Though he hated being domestic with his flatmate (especially around the Yard – who would tease him insufferably), the Doctor in him flared up.

“Sherlock, open your eyes – at this rate you’re going to get glasses before forty.”

Lestrade turned to look at him, a smile rising on the side of his lips.

God, he would never hear the end of this.

 

Once he had angrily compared the state of a dead mans’ flat to their own – which had resulted in them angrily (and quite loudly) arguing about the kitchen schedule (Sherlock was supposed to tidy up the kitchen on Wednesdays, but he never did, leading John to usually take the duty upon himself.)

Two months later and they still would tease him about it at the pub.

Once when he had announced that he was heading home a tipsy detective named James had all but thrown himself upon John's shoulder, "Oh!," he slurred, "Have to get home to Sherlock, oi?"

That had gotten a laugh out of the Yard.

 

John instantly regretted his words, and was about to something or other when Sherlock snapped away from his poised demeanor and turned his head with lightning speed to look at him, “Say that again.”, he said, his eyes sparkling, “ _exactly_ what you said – say it again.”

The doctor was not caught as off-guard than he’d be.

 _I’m getting accustomed to it_ , he thought with chagrin.

“Um… Sherlock, open your eyes. At this rate you’re going to get glasses before forty.”

Sherlock stared intensely at him for a micro-second, his eyes shining even brighter, before his lips broke out into a large smile, seeming so out of place among his normally apathetic features.

 

The air seemed to crackle with unseen static.

“ _John_!” Sherlock bellowed, his smile beaming, “John, you… you _brilliant_ man.”

Sherlock positively radiated in his direction and bounded over to the dead body, grabbing a pair of gloves from the still-confused medical assistant and snapping them on.

Lestrade and John quickly followed suit, standing behind Sherlock as he knelt over the body.

“Sherlock, what’s going on now?”

“Eyes, John, _eyes_!” He replied, placing a finger over the eyelids of the body and pulling them open.

 

An expression of fear and confusion flickered across Sherlock’s features, and John took a step back, eyes wide, while Lestrade simply stared, unmoving.

For a second the only sound that could be heard was that of the hum of the crowd, people quickly evaporating.

“Bloody hell,” John breathed into the silence, not quite processing the words himself.

Lestrade cleared his thought and turned around, loudly announcing, his voice cracking in the middle,

“We… we need a med team here – _stat_.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m sorry sir, can you please remove all metal items and step through again?”

Dean Winchester scowled at his younger brother, who was smirking at him _, the bastard_ , large hands in his pockets, from behind the metal detector.

He set his jaw and stepped back, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rifling through them to find any item he’d forgotten. 

He’d already waited for half an hour in a line to simply get to this point – the TSA scanner, and put all his things in the little baskets.

Now it was his third time stepping through this God-forsaken machine, and he was _really_ starting to get pissed off.

Sam had just sashayed through, the machine silent as he exited out the other side.

Dean had, obviously, not been so lucky.

The older Winchester breathed in, deeply, as he rummaged through his pockets, none the happily.

His fingers slid across something cold and metallic, a shiver running down his spine.

He froze.

 _Shit_.

Oh, shit _indeed_.

 

Before they’d come to the airport, Sam and Dean had made sure to not bring any of their usual weapons. They already had a big enough target on their backs – being, y’know, wanted criminals and all, - and they definitely didn’t need to stand out any more than they already did.

So then, what exactly was in his pocket?

His heart started to beat in his throat, rhythmically gaining speed, as he suddenly became aware of every single one of his movements, time seeming to slow down around him.

He felt the cold surge of what could only be fear - fear mixed with adrenaline- wash over his body.

He looked at the TSA attendant and knew that she had already sensed something faintly “off” about his sudden change of demeanor, as indicated by her still polite, yet slightly confused, smile.

He knew that he had no choice but to simply yank it out of his pocket casually.

And so he did.

 

And for a second it seemed that the world froze around him, pausing before fleeting back to reality.

 

The TSA attendant breathed a sigh of relief, the worry lines quickly fading from her brow.

“That’s probably what is was,” she chirped, yanking Dean’s metal pen from out of his hands and tossing it into a bin.

 

This time he stepped through the gate without incident.

 

Sam looked like he was about to burst out laughing when Dean quickly stepped besides him and elbowed him, none to friendly, in the stomach.

“Bitch,” he whispered in Sam’s direction, as they walked to pick up their now-scanned baggage.

“Jerk.” Sam replied, yanking his black duffel bag from the moving conveyor belt.

They stood for a moment, almost washed into the crowd by the constant flow of people.

 

This airport wasn't big by any standards, which was one of the reasons they’d chose it.

It was small and tidy, with two floors and a couple of scattered restaurants and gift shops. The floors shone white and the lights were bright, the large screen which announced all the departing and returning flights constantly changing and flashing.

There was a relatively small amount of people, a few hundred from the looks of it, walking or sitting around.

A pretty African-American business woman in a pantsuit talked into her Bluetooth headset, rummaging through her briefcase until she pulled out a manila folder with paper sticking out of it in all directions.

A blonde, middle-aged couple with unfortunate tans (which seemed to be more “burn” than “tan”) and Hawaii-print shirts bickered among themselves in the corner, next to the bathrooms, their luggage in hand.

A young man with ripped jeans and a beanie sat in a waiting terminal, his feet spread out across the seat opposite him, his converse worn and tattered, with a guitar next to him and a backpack with patches.

 

Sam breathed in and cleared his mind.

He hadn't been this excited in a while.

 

Usually they took their cases on what might have been the faux sense of, maybe prideful, responsibility. Although he as slightly ashamed to say this, he hadn't thought that all of their hunts were boring… some of them were quite, well, _fun_.

And as he thought this he felt his stomach curl into an invisible knot, heartstrings twanging beneath his skin.

People had died. He’d seen so many people – so many good, innocent people die.

He’d even been the cause of a few.

 

He could not be anything but ashamed for thinking of the hunts as “fun”, not when there were so many who had suffered, so many disasters and tragedy’s that it was almost a sick, twisted cliché.

 

And so he hated himself, hated himself with every fiber in his body; for daring to enjoy that intoxicating feeling, for embracing the energy that pumped through his veins and the twisted excitement he felt on a hunt.

And so he hated himself right now, for having a twinge of anticipation, a spark of light, in the back of his mind for this misadventure.

He composed himself and tried to distract his brain, not wanting to ruminate on it any further, “So…,” he intoned, glancing sideways at his brother, “Where’s gate 34A?”

They glanced around the airport until their eyes fell upon a sign that read “Gates 23 – 50” with an arrow pointing left.

Dean slightly turned his head, gesturing left, and the brothers went off, in a search for the beginning of something new.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sammy… I can’t do this.”

“Dean, we…”

“-SAM GODDAMIT. I CAN’T **DO** THIS”

Dean made to stand up from his economy class airplane seat,

“Where’s the exit from this hellhole?”

 

“Dean – We haven’t even started flying yet.” Sam lowered his voice to a whisper, “And shut up – some people are starting to look.”

Dean glanced around and was met by a hundred pairs of eyes, staring straight at him.

He quietly sat back down and leaned back, defeated, “Why did I agree to this?”

He clenched his jaw, “This is the last place I ever want to be again.”

Sam, who had picked up one of those in-flight magazines and was thumbing through it, looked his way nonchalantly, “Dean, you’ve been in hell.”

“This is worse!”, The older brother shot back.

Sam shot him one of his copyrighted bitchfaces before returning back to his magazine.

Dean slumped back in his seat, grumpily, “I miss baby.”

Sam looked blankly at him, “You have a problem”

“Says L’Oréal commercial over here,” retorted Dean.

Sam was thinking of a clever retort when the intercom above them buzzed and hummed, crackling on with a vibrant buzz.

“Hello passengers!” boomed the loud, male voice, over the intercom, “I am Alan Kirving, and I will be your pilot for today.”

 

Dean started to, slightly, panic.

 

“It is sixty-eight degrees with a slight breeze and high visibility. We will be taking off momentarily. Please take this time to fasten your seat belts and make sure all tables are in an upright position.”

Above him the “seatbelts on” sign lit up, and throughout the cabin of the plane emerged tiny clicks.

Ok, now he was full-out panicking.

Dean sunk into his seat and gripped the armrests tightly, holding on for dear life. He casually glanced out the window to feign an air of control, but immediately regretted it.

Beneath him he saw airport workers rushing around, as tiny as ants, beneath the plane, some holding a long blue tube, some checking the wheels and landing gear before quickly moving out of the way.

He inhaled, a long, deep breath through his nose, and closed his eyes.

Oh, man.

Sam glanced up from his now almost-finished magazine to look at his brother. “Dean…”

“Don’t say a word,” intoned the older Winchester, a dangerous sort of edge in his voice.

Sam just shook his head and went back to his in-flight reading session, moving on to the section about cooking equipment.

 

Six hours and twenty-three minutes later and Sam was dangerously close to launching himself out of the emergency exit and gladly free-falling to his death.

The beginning had been slightly better than he’d expected. After he’d got Dean breathing into a paper bag (whilst trying to ignore the stares of the other passengers as he rubbed the back of a full-grown man on the edge of tears who was breathing in and out of a complimentary airline bag), he and his brother fell into a worn-out sleep.

He often forgot how little sleep they actually got - monsters don’t exactly have a sleep schedule

It was then, partially due to this fact perhaps, that they were asleep for a solid three hours.

The economy class seats weren't exactly comfortable, but they’d slept in a lot worse. To them the hard, plastic seats might as well have been the plushest bed from the penthouse Hilton suite.

And then they woke up.

And that is how Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, ended up crammed in the small airport bathroom, rubbing his hand comfortingly over his brothers’ back as said brother hunched forward over the toilet, barfing out his lunch.

Whilst he had been dragged into the small toilet by his brother for moral support, the other passengers undoubtedly had another idea of what they were doing, as evidenced by the looks and upturned eyebrows they’d gotten whilst shutting the metal door.

 

Sam shuddered just thinking about it.

 

Dean was silent for several seconds, completely still.

He onto his feet, unsteadily, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his skin still tinted slightly green.

“Are… do you feel a little bit better?,” Sam questioned, nervously watching Dean slightly sway back and forth, anticipating how he was going to get a hold of his brother is he fell to the ground.

Dean put on a pained, obviously fake smile,

“Yep. C’mon lets get goin….”

Dean fell flat forward, landing against his brothers’ waiting shoulders.

“OH FOR CHRISTS’ SAKE DEAN!” Sam bellowed, as the shorter Winchester proceeded to gag violently…

And throw up over the back of Sams’ jacket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Angel Meets the Alien.  
> And they both have an uncanny appreciation for trench coats.

The Doctor was confused.

This in itself was a rare occurrence, but was made far more disturbing by the fact that he could tell she was confused.

His TARDIS, older than time in itself, formed in the explosion of a supernova; the white light of a burning star; was utterly at a loss of what to do.

 

The Doctor coughed politely, raking his fingers through his thick brown hair as he attempted to find the right words to say.

He looked into the ethereal blue eyes of the human-looking man (he didn't even need the TARDIS's life scans to tell that the being wasn't human - he could... feel it himself, in the atmosphere around him), eyeing the backwards, blue tie and... was that a brown, no, _tan_  trench coat?

Well, whatever he was, at least he had a sense of style.

The Gallifreyans' voice finally found its way out of his mouth, coming out sounding like more of a question than anything else.

"So... who are you?"

He then took the time to survey the havoc that surrounded him, the burning wreckage, the melting chains and red-hot, angry ashes that lingered on the smoke in the air.

"And what _exactly_ just happened?"

 

 


End file.
